Today I’m feeling optimistic. And I do my best not to think about the end.
Of course, that doesn’t work out.
I still have more than two months. Lots of time. It could have been worse. What if there were a courtesy service that alerted you only ten minutes before you died. Maybe they’d send out a handy self-deleting text message or else a courier service with messengers on mopeds would go from house to house to deliver the news.
“Hello, we just wanted to let you know that you’re going to die in ten minutes!”
“Oh thanks, darn it, I’d just put some pasta on. It takes thirteen minutes to cook.”
“I’m afraid you don’t have enough time. Unless you want to eat it al dente.”
“Too bad, I like it cooked thoroughly. Do you think I have time to use the bathroom?”
“I don’t know—is it something quick?”
“Well, I did want to take a quick shower. You never know whom you’re going to meet in the afterlife . . .”
“Look, sorry to burst your bubble, but there is no such thing as the afterlife; that’s just an invention of organized religions. I hope you enjoy the next nine minutes of boiling pasta.”
“What? I didn’t steal, I didn’t take the Lord’s name in vain, I didn’t covet my neighbor’s wife . . . and now? You say there’s no reward?”
“No, I’m just sorry for you, that you didn’t take your chances!”
As he goes on talking, I nod off.
Like I told you, I’m feeling optimistic today.